Many of the towns had historical interests or remains to make them remarkable. At Hospitalet we found ourselves on the site of a House of Refuge for pilgrims from Zaragoza who in the Middle Ages were wont to cross the mountains in caravans after visiting the scene of some miraculous pillar or image. Near this we skirted a fishing village, where the train was almost washed by the sea that, blue and flashing, stretched far and wide. The little fleet was moving out of the small harbour as we passed, each followed by its shadow upon the water. Picturesque Amposta was the centre and atmosphere of the lost centuries. It existed long before the Romans, who, on taking it, made it one of their chief stations. Here came Hercules, and after him St. Paul, who did much work and ordained a bishop to carry on his labours. Later came the Moors, when it reached the height of its glory. In 809 Louis le Débonnaire, son of Charlemagne, besieged it, was repulsed, returned in 811 and conquered. The Moors quickly retook it, but the disorganised inhabitants had become nothing better than pirates. So in 1143 the Templars came down upon them, and inspired by the late victory at Almeria, aided by the Italians, conquered in their turn: only to be turned out again the following year by the inevitable Moors.
Everywhere the eye rested upon a lovely scene of river, sea and land, intensely blue sky and brilliant sunshine. In our carriage we had a very interesting bride and bridegroom. She seemed to worship the very ground he trod upon, and both were evidently in paradise. At the same time he accepted the worship rather too much as his due—gracefully and graciously, but still distinctly his right. They were in the mood to admire lovely scenery, and undertones of delight were frequent.
Presently an old priest entered the carriage, sat himself down beside us, and they quickly fell under his eye. He looked on with a smile of amusement at the silent unmistakable worship. We thought he drew his conclusions as one who observes a scene in which he has no part or lot.
"Love's young dream," he said to us under cover of the rattle of the train. "My experience tells me it is only a dream, varying in length according to the constancy of the dreamers. You think I have no right to give an opinion? Then, señor, I should tell you that, like the world in general, you judge by appearances and judge too hastily. That is the difference between impressions and appearances. Of first appearances beware; of first impressions be assured. They have never failed me."
We agreed with the old priest, but made no remark.
"You think I have no business to judge of these matters?" he continued with a smile; "and you are mistaken. I was not always a priest clad in black robe and beaver hat, separated from the world by the barrier of the Church. In early life I took up law, pleaded, and generally won my cause. Then I pleaded my own cause with a beautiful woman, won her and married her. I, too, dwelt in my fool's paradise; thought the world all sunshine, the hours all golden. I was young and in those days handsome. Never can I reconcile the ugly, grey-headed man one becomes in age, with the charm and elegance of one's youth. But time has no mercy. However, the fact remains that in those days I was young and handsome."
The old priest was handsome still; but again we were silent.
"Then one fine morning I awoke to realities," he went on. "The angel with the flaming sword had come and driven me out of my paradise. Yet I had not transgressed. It was the woman, whom I fondly hoped heaven had given me as a life-long companion. She was beautiful; there was an indescribable charm about her; but she was frivolous and inconstant. She left me one day with one whom I had thought my friend. He was rich and free to roam. I heard of them in other countries: wandering to and fro like spirits ill at ease.
"Finally they went to Rome. Was it a judgment upon the wife who had proved faithless to her husband, the man who had betrayed his friend? Both took the fever at the same time and died within a week of each other. They were buried side by side in a small cemetery near to the Eternal City. Some years after I went to Rome. I had lived down my life's tragedy and could gaze upon their graves with calmness. As I did so, and realised the certainty of retribution, I prayed that I might judge in mercy. They had blighted my life, but looking on those nameless graves I felt for the first time that I could forgive. Yes, the graves were nameless, for no stone had been placed over them. This I did. By way of inscription I merely recorded the initials on each: and the text 'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'
"That very same day I was wandering about the English cemetery in Rome, and came upon the text 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water;' doubtless the expression of one whose life had been a failure or disappointment. 'My friend,' I thought, 'you are not to be pitied half so much as those whose names are writ in Sin.'